


We Get Around

by novemberlite



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Felching, Fingerfucking, M/M, Magical Bondage, Moresomes, Orgy, Porn, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novemberlite/pseuds/novemberlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the round table is useful for all sorts of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Get Around

Percival corners him after they return from the hunt, clothes sodden and water dripping into his eyes. The hand he places on Arthur's arm is hesitant and he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else; Arthur takes pity on him and turns to face him fully, raises an eyebrow that serves as a _yes?_

"I--I wanted, for tonight, I wanted to know," he starts, stumbles, oddly charming in his anxiety. "The others wouldn't tell me anything, so I thought--tonight. What am I supposed to do?"

He lifts his eyes, hopeful, like Arthur has all the answers. Which, well, he does--but he's not giving them away for free. So he waits, lets the pause stretch until Percival is shuffling his feet, uneasy, and then steps into his space like he belongs there and leans in as if about to impart a great secret. Percival's eyes widen in anticipation, and Arthur smiles, says:

"Whatever he wants you to."

* * *

What Merlin wants is to be fucked within an inch of his life.

The storm hasn't let up and the castle smells of rain on earth, everything dark and cold. There's damp, unyielding stone at Arthur's back and under his palms; his clothes stick like a heavy second skin. It's not the most comfortable he's ever been, but Merlin says there's power in this place, so much he can breathe it in like air. It makes him greedy, wild, and Arthur will put up with stiff, sore muscles if it means he’s presented with a vision like this: Percival's hands spanning Merlin's waist, fingers digging into skin and arms straining as he lifts, Merlin's head thrown back to rest against his shoulder, throat bobbing over every swallow and trembling with every moan.

Merlin’s thighs are splayed open obscenely wide, slick from sweat and rain. It’s for Arthur’s benefit, the worst kind of tease to see him take Percival’s cock, his body opening around huge, rigid flesh. Arthur knows what it feels like to sink into him, what it felt like the very first time, and Percival’s eyes display the same sort of awe, as if he’s not entirely sure this is real, allowed. He will leave bruises on Merlin’s skin despite his best efforts to be gentle, mottled signs of possession on the cut of Merlin’s hip, the curve of his ribs and spine. Arthur will finger them, later, after Merlin’s appetite has been sated and the storm’s slowed to a drizzle; he’ll press his thumb into the imprint of his knight’s as they sleep.

But for now there’s this: Percival’s eyes, startled and wide as they seek his approval, body trembling from the need to come. Arthur would tell him it’s not his approval he needs to win, but he likes the look of him too much to lose it now--cheeks flushed and mouth red, wet in the firelight, wetter when Merlin twists and tastes it with a swipe of his tongue. Percival makes a shocked, stifled noise in the back of his throat and Merlin’s not laughing, yet, but his eyes are glinting with it when they meet Arthur’s.

He stretches an arm back and hooks it around Percival’s neck, body arched in display as he pulls him into a kiss. Percival’s hips falter and his hand brushes the straining length of Merlin’s cock; Merlin bucks in response, and someone says, _fuck_ , low and hungry.

Merlin’s mouth moves against Percival’s, and the line of his jaw is sharp and striking. He’s saying something between kisses and Arthur can’t make out words over the sound of rain but it doesn’t matter, because he’s heard it all before-- _more, fuck, give me more, I want all of it_ \--and Percival grinds up into Merlin like he’s trying to fuse them together before fucking him properly, the smacking sound of skin on skin making blood roar in Arthur’s ears.

Arthur’s cock throbs in time with Percival’s thrusts. He drops his gaze to the stone table and curls his hands into fists, fights the urge to palm himself through his breeches and looks up just in time to see Gawain give in, the shift of his body as he spreads his legs and slides a hand in between.

Arthur would guess he manages to get in two, or three, rough jerks to his cock before Merlin’s eyes snap open--a brilliant, familiar gold--and Gawain’s arms are pinned to his side, hips rutting helplessly into the air.

“Fuck,” Gawain snarls, _”Merlin,”_ and Merlin says, “not yet, not--yet,” and, “I’ll get to you,” more threat than promise. Arthur feels the curious brush of Merlin’s magic against his balls and waits for it to tighten into a familiar vice, but there’s only a quick dirty rub against his perineum that has Arthur choking before it retreats, leaving his skin flushed too hot and cock hard enough to hurt.

Lancelot makes a pained sound, the first he’s made all night, and Gawain drops his head on the table, lower lip caught between his teeth and shoulders trembling with the strain of fighting against magical bonds. Merlin doesn’t meet his eyes, but Arthur thinks he can hear the hint of a laugh in his short, panting moans. Percival’s still fucking into him, fast and hard--still, _still_ \--and it feels like it’s been hours since they walked in and Merlin slipped out of his robe, smiled, and said, “Who’s first?”

Sweat rolls down the back of Arthur’s neck and there’s not enough air in the room, everything tense and on edge. Lancelot’s eyes are screwed shut and Gawain’s clawing a little at the table, testament to how tight a grip Merlin has on them. Rain batters the castle and Percival’s balls _slap slap slap_ against Merlin’s arse, and Arthur’s hand twitches, about to tip over the edge, just as Merlin presses his palm flat against Percival’s ruddy cheek and murmurs, “let me have it,” says, “come.”

Percival does, with a small, wounded noise, face pressed against the back of Merlin’s neck and knuckles going white on his hips. Merlin’s body locks tight around him, every muscle tense, and Arthur remembers how that feels--tries not to, because it’s bringing him too close, and they’ve only just started. So he averts his eyes, focuses on the far wall, the flickering torchlight, the cut on Lancelot’s temple and Gawain’s messy hair; anything but the sight of Percival slumping back, spent, and the greedy gold light in Merlin’s eyes. He can’t keep himself from hearing, though, and the slick sound of their bodies separating makes his cock blurt precome, trapped in his breeches and painfully hard.

Merlin stands and kisses the corner of Percival’s mouth, affectionate, before moving past Elyan’s empty chair and toward Gawain. He looks--bewitching, like something other-worldly, alien beautiful; the hair on Arthur’s body stands on end at the sight of him, because it’s as if the physical manifestation of his power is making him glow, making his eyes turn sharp and too-bright, provocative and predatory. This is a Merlin others only get to see on the battlefield, in place besides his king, and Arthur’s heart lodges tight in his throat, thrums a blood beat until he’s _aching_ with want. Merlin glances at him once, sly, and smiles like he knows.

He does.

“Merlin,” Gawain says as he comes closer, pleading, and if Arthur shifts on his chair just right he can see Gawain’s cock, slick and shiny from leaking steadily for so long. Merlin’s mouth twitches and Arthur can tell he’s trying not to grin, before sliding behind Gawain’s chair and making as if to head for Lancelot, instead. It’s a game; Arthur bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the look on Gawain’s face just before Merlin releases his arms and he shoots forward to grab Merlin around the waist, yanking him forward and onto his lap with a barked, _”Fuck_ no.”

Merlin laughs, loud and unrestrained, magic sparking off the walls and making the fire dance--lets himself be manhandled into position, bent over the table, long legs spread wide. His arms stretch out and it’s almost like he’s reaching for Arthur, palms flat and fingers spread in supplication as Gawain lines up and slots in with one quick, hard thrust.

“Fuck,” Gawain says, and Arthur’s eyes flicker from the way his muscles contract as he pulls out and pushes back in and the indulgent look on Merlin’s face, the curve of his slack, open mouth. “You’re so fucking wet,” Gawain grunts, “sloppy with it,” and Lancelot’s sharp hiss is drowned out by Merlin’s laughter.

“You know who to thank,” he hums, and they all turn as one to look at Percival, who still hasn’t lost the look of dazed awe. He’s got one hand pressed against his bruised mouth, and the other cupping his soft, vulnerable cock, as if to shield it from Merlin’s further attentions. Arthur wants to touch--he must be sensitive, painfully so, but he’d hold still for Arthur’s hands, and mouth, whine at the first touch of tongue, the first rough, hungry suck.

Merlin makes a sound and Arthur turns to catch him looking, teeth digging into his bottom lip. His eyes don’t leave Arthur’s, not even as he rises to the tips of his toes, arse in the air for Gawain to better fuck, and Arthur wonders if he’s not reading his mind. It wouldn’t be the first time, and the spill of seed always makes Merlin’s magic greedy, eager and demanding. It’s rather the point of all this, so Arthur keeps their gaze locked and projects, _harder_ , silently reminds, _you like it to hurt, a little._

“Harder,” Merlin gasps, and Arthur has to close his eyes. “The virgin fucked me harder than you, Gawain.”

“Shut up,” Gawain laughs, “demanding little tart,” and Arthur sees the grin Merlin hides against his arm. The smile turns into a shaky gasp when Gawain begins to fuck him in earnest, pistoning in and out with force enough to make Merlin arch his back and mewl. “More,” he demands, “more, please, want it--” always the most vocal with Gawain while he’s near silent with everyone else, perhaps because it’s second nature for Gawain to talk back; say, “sweetheart,” and, “I’ll give it to you, shh, let me--let me--” and, “Merlin, _Merlin--”_

Arthur knows what he whispers in Merlin’s ears, too, when he bends down and covers Merlin’s body with his own: a quiet, shaky, _you’re beautiful, you know_ and a quieter, _I--Merlin, I--_ that has Merlin twisting to catch his mouth, hand in his hair and kissing him hard, then slow, and soft, until they’re breathing into each other’s mouths and Gawain stretches his arms out alongside and their fingers curl together.

They fuck until Arthur’s breath goes short and shallow; until it feels like all the air is being sucked out of the room and replaced with eddies of magic; until they’re choking on it and Gawain’s biting kisses into Merlin’s neck and gasping, “let me, Merlin, let me come--”

Merlin shakes his head no and arches when Gawain sucks on the tender spot behind his ear, rolls his hips and then winces when it rubs his sensitive cock against the unforgiving stone of the table. He ruts against it anyway, panting, face twisted into a grimace, and Arthur imagines him leaving streaks of come on the surface, imagines it collecting in the carvings and feels dizzy from want, as utterly devastated as he always becomes when faced with Merlin.

Maybe he makes a sound, some involuntary display of defeat, because Merlin looks up and searches Arthur’s face until he finds the answer to a question only he knows, and then lets his head fall forward, whispers, _yes._

Gawain bites the back of his neck and fucks him with short, jerky thrusts before going still, slumping into him with a low moan. They lie there for seconds, minutes that stretch like hours, and just when Arthur thinks he’ll go mad from waiting and Lancelot looks like he’ll _die_ from it--Gawain slips out, falls back into the chair and whistles with what breath he has left. Laughs, and goes: “What a view.”

Merlin grins, squirms more than strictly necessary as he gets up, and catches Arthur’s eye as he does. He looks a little drugged, eyes heavy and dark--powerful, like a touch of his finger could make the entire castle quake. Arthur knows it wouldn’t take even that; breathes in slow and tries not to lose it as Merlin straddles Lancelot and kisses him hello.

Large hands span the curve of Merlin’s back, trace every ridge of his spine before curling over his arse and pulling him close. Lancelot always touches Merlin like it’s the first time--the last time--slow and reverent, feeling his way with strokes and kisses until Merlin is boneless, pliant to a degree even Arthur can’t get him to achieve. Arthur expects the same treatment now; has resigned himself to an hour of long, sweet kisses and breathless murmurs in between, but Lancelot slides one shaking hand down Merlin’s side, and says into his hair, “Merlin, I can’t--I can’t go slow, tonight.”

“Oh, come on,” Gawain drawls, lazy and full of mischief now that he’s spent. He slides a look in Arthur’s direction and smirks, says, “Where’s your stamina, Lancelot?”

Arthur often thinks of Gawain on his hands and knees while he drills some respect into him, but the urge to shut his mouth--preferably with his cock--has never been as strong as it is now. He puts all of his violent promises into a single glare, but Gawain just grins, unrepentant--props his feet up on the table and gets comfortable, the taunt evident in every line of his body.

Lancelot ignores him, and sighs in relief when Merlin murmurs gentle agreement and pulls him into another kiss. They separate with a wet sound, a string of saliva stretching between their mouths until Lancelot licks his lips and asks, hand hovering over Merlin’s cock: “Can I touch you?” and Merlin sighs yes, but grasps his hand and drags it lower, until long fingers press into him, easy.

He won’t want to come yet, not until he’s full to the brim with their spend, but Lancelot makes do, fucking him with his fingers and pressing in all the right places until Merlin’s curled over him and twitching for his cock. He feeds it to him slow--slow enough that Arthur hurts to look at it and marvels at his control--and when he’s in balls deep, fastens a mouth to Merlin’s chest and sucks hard, makes him gasp.

Merlin slides a hand into his hair and holds him close. Arthur can’t see his face from here, but he can imagine the soft o of his mouth, gold glinting through the slits his eyes become. Lancelot hums and Merlin sighs, and they’re not soft men--Arthur knows there’s nothing delicate about either of them, has known them long enough and seen them through enough battles to _know_ that--but you wouldn’t think it to look at them now, the way they lean in together and press open-mouthed kisses into each other’s skin.

The shift of Merlin’s hips is painfully slow and Lancelot remains still, lets him rise and fall and ride him the way he wants. His fingers stroke the dip of Merlin’s spine before going lower, pressing up right against his hole as he asks: “Sore?”

The answer, Arthur knows, is _not nearly enough_ , but Merlin just shakes his head and presses down, encourages with little licks into Lancelot’s mouth until two fingers slip in alongside his cock. He’s loose, used well enough that they slide in to the knuckle and only make him shudder; Arthur thinks he hears the thump of Gawain’s boots as his legs slip off the table, thinks he hears him swear and Percival whine, but he can’t be sure because the frantic thud of his heartbeat drowns out all else.

Merlin fucks himself on Lancelot’s cock--and his fingers, _fuck_ \--unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, but Arthur can see urgency in the sweaty, matted hair at the back of his neck, in the tremble in his thighs and the way his toes curl tight--in the angry red flush of his neglected cock. Arthur’s own cock aches, to the point where it’s nearly unbearable, and he thinks, _Merlin,_ and _Merlin_ ; gives in and thinks, _please_ , until Merlin grinds down on Lancelot’s cock, hard enough to make him come.

His fingers slip out first, shiny wet, and then Merlin lifts himself off of his cock. The torches flicker as they kiss and a thrill shoots down Arthur’s spine when Merlin turns to him and his breeches unfasten themselves, tugged down his thighs by an impatient strand of magic. Merlin doesn’t smile, but his gaze burns, and Arthur waits until he’s close enough to feel the heat from before curling a hand over the back of Merlin’s head, gripping a thigh, and tupping him over the table.

Arthur’s knuckles glance against stone, but Merlin’s sharp, shaky, “Arthur--” makes the sting worth it. He slides his achy hand out from under Merlin’s head and puts it on his knee, uses it to spread his legs apart so he can fit in between. The look of confusion on Merlin’s face dissipates into aggravation; he warns, “Arthur,” and growls, “don’t,” but Arthur’s never been good at taking orders--never learned how--so he just leans down and takes Merlin’s cock into his mouth, sucks hard enough to make him yell.

 _”Fuck.”_ Merlin bucks into his mouth and Arthur chokes, slides off coughing and looks once at Merlin’s wild eyes before ducking back down again, putting both hands on his hips, this time, to hold him down. The bruises from Percival’s grip have already started to form and the sight makes Arthur’s cock jerk; he slides a palm up, over Merlin’s trembling stomach, and relishes in the hot bitter taste flooding his mouth.

“Don’t,” Merlin gasps, but his voice cracks in the middle and his magic is fluttering in anything but displeasure. There’s a hand curled tight into Arthur’s hair, holding him down--he wonders if Merlin even knows--and when his heels start scrambling for purchase against stone, Arthur pulls off with a pop and hooks his legs over his shoulders.

Someone--Gawain--mutters, “fuck, yes,” and Arthur hides a smile against Merlin’s thigh, slides both hands under his arse and lifts him up so he can nose at his balls and, _”Arthur, fuck,”_ put his mouth right over Merlin’s wet, used hole.

He tastes like the three of them, salty and pungent, and Arthur licks at him until all he can taste is skin, and then pushes his tongue inside. Merlin shouts, says, “fuck, oh--” and Arthur works in two fingers to spread him open and then eats him out until he’s incoherent, shaking with it, and all it takes is the hint of teeth against his rim to have him scrabbling at stone.

Arthur moves back up to his cock, but leaves a thumb pressed against his hole, just the promise of penetration enough to have Merlin mewling. His balls are drawn up tight against his body and he must be hurting--liking it, if the way he’s leaking is any indication--so Arthur sucks bruises on the soft insides of his thighs before pushing him back and climbing over him, stone unforgiving under his knees.

Merlin’s eyes are as wet as his bitten red lips, and when he strains up for a kiss Arthur wishes he’d collected enough come in his mouth to be able to feed it to him; shares the taste, instead, and Merlin whispers, “fuck,” and licks into his mouth like he’s starving for it. A hand finds its way into Arthur’s hair, fingers gentle against his scalp, and he lowers his hips until their cocks slot together, skin on hot, slick skin and Arthur--he means to last longer than he does, longer than the second it takes for them to touch, but he’s coming before he even knows it, pressing a gasp into Merlin’s throat and striping his stomach with come.

His mind whites out from the intensity and he hears Merlin’s strangled groan when he grinds down hard, feels the evidence of Merlin’s release on his skin just before the torches flare up, white hot, and die.

“Oh, brilliant,” Gawain says into the darkness, and Merlin huffs out a laugh against Arthur’s ear before the torches begin to light themselves, one by one. He’s smiling, when his face finally comes into view, private amusement curling the corners of his mouth, and Arthur lifts himself up with one hand and rubs their mingled come into Merlin’s skin with the other. Gawain snorts, but Merlin arches up beneath his touch.

“You’re supposed to come _inside_ me, you know,” he says, while Arthur diligently works come over the bruises Percival left, as if he cares a whit about how the ritual’s supposed to go. Arthur looks up and shrugs; trails teasing fingers over Merlin’s cock and watches him hiss.

“Next time,” he hums. And smiles.


End file.
